Contemporary
by ImaMonsturr
Summary: Turkey. You complete me, in the way a nail completes a car tire. /a series of TurkeyGreece oneshots.
1. Trigger Happy

Turkey. You complete me, in the way a nail completes a car tire.

The way that you completely and utterly destroy me; render me useless to everything I was crafted to be. But, if you stab enough of those damn nails into the car tire, it makes a wonderful piece of abstract art for some sort of creepy, garage-style contemporary structure. In some twisted comparison, you do the same to me; you've made me completely incapable of the things I am expected to do - pay attention to others, dream about typical things (as in.. not you). But, if you look at it, you've jabbed just enough nails into my frame that I am suddenly beautiful again in that weird, broken sort of way... I carry a sense of loyalty and loving that most tires - er, countries - surely don't have.

That must mean that your heart is that creepy, garage-style contemporary structure. Because outside of that place, I just look like a tire that was molested by a kid who was a little trigger-happy with his new nail gun. But when placed in the proper surroundings, suddenly I'm unique and rather handsome. That seems about right to me. To anyone else, I'm just completely and utterly irrelevant, and every other country would be as well of or better without me. But when you're around, for a brief moment of your time (when you feel like it), I'm cute and sweet like I used to be and others _wish this Greece was around more often, where has he been?_

With that said, my conclusion is this.  
You must be the kid who's a little trigger-happy with his new nail gun, and I'm the tire you've smothered with nails that you coated with a weird concoction of obscurity and love and lust...

You guard your creation like a jealous predator,

(and I really couldn't ask for more.)

* * *

**Building my collection of TurkeyGreece drabbles. I'll add more as I think of them ~ **


	2. Stitches

You thread whispers through my shoulder blades like strings of traumatic lullabies. You pull my shoulders taught with iron laces, your words the knots in my stiffening muscles. My bones corrode at the joints, and you make it painful to move.

Your breath is pure chemical poison, paralyzing my lungs and making it impossible to breathe. As my savage gasps for air rake over my aching throat, you exhale your chlorine gas onto the nape of my neck.

You dot kisses of indulgence over my skin in a way that makes me sick to my stomach (each one leaving a lasting imprint, I will come up looking like a leopard), yet I know that if I try to stir I will be paralysed; helpless without your once divine sort of air.

You see that I am not so strong. Soak me up in the remains of your venom. These are your arms, your fingers, your touches, but they feel like the slow drag of crooked claws against my back. Deadfall words from your tongue ('I'm here') ensnare my once purest love. A love which has become a mere carcass, hauled through the dirt and hung to rot on a butcher hook above our bed.

Damn you, Turkey.  
Damn you for holding me when I am weak.  
Damn you for knowing as long as I hear your heartbeat my own will be its echo.  
Damn you for keeping me here, chained against your chest so I can listen to it until I am healed.

Damn you.

_I need you._


	3. Love Monologue

Greece,

I hope my laugh will stay tangled up in your hair, so that when it hangs down by your ears; you'll think you hear me being happy whenever you hang your head.

I hope my voice clings to every piece of thread woven into the blankets on your bed. Then, while you sleep you dream of me and wake up feeling even emptier.

I hope the ghosts of my hands haunt your every curve and corner, and when you turn your head you think you catch sight of me - but it's just the manifestation of your lies.

I hope that someday you forget me and you forget about how much you want to hate me. You know those feelings are false, and I'd rather not call you out

because you're always lying to yourself. Especially when your lips met mine and even more so when you said that you missed me.

This is not for the faint of heart, or feeble minded. You are both of those things my dear, weaker then glass and no stronger than a starving and deprived mutt.

Oh, look at you.

I m no good at this.

Maybe I should just tell you to want me.

* * *

**Thankyou for the kind comments~  
it means a lot to me, (:**


	4. Power Surge

The lamp's gentle light has been illuminating our faces for hours now, and I watch your skin soften like caramel beneath its gentle hues. Your baiting eyes flicker readily as they meet mine: Lock. Hold. Smile.  
Your fingers capture mine, and though I sense strength there, you spin into them so delicately. Like my own are the frame of a spider's web; as though one wrong flick of the wrist will cause me to dismantle and simply float away like leaves. It reminds me somewhat of a lion carrying it s young. I m just as awed as to how something so powerful could ever be as gentle.

Your back is pressed casually against the fabric of the couch, and your eyebrows duck into an expression somewhere between question and excitement and pride; a mirror image of the thoughts flickering through my mind. Sparks and fireworks and Catherine wheels. Such beautiful eyes that I thought they must be casting back the light from my private show what could you possibly be looking at so intently? Could I really be this precious treasure that you seem to be observing? Would you really protect me as fiercely as these eyes narrate?

In the heartbeats which follow, I know I m yours. Completely, truly and utterly yours. And I can t help but bask in that feeling.

In a gentle motion, I sense your fingers withdraw from mine. I open my mouth, be it to speak or breathe, but before words have the chance to escape, you silence me. Everything is a new rush, a power surge, electrified at just the right moment to cut the light down to nothing. All I see is blackness, all I feel is you.

You catch my breaths, and I feel the soft replacement of your hands at my waist. A chill rushes against my spine down to my toes, twisted beneath your feet. The warmth I seek is right inside you, right inside your chest. Nothing is close enough, I could never quite reach it without physically climbing inside you, but we both must have swallowed magnets: I can't pull away.

My eyes have adjusted just enough to catch the outline of your face; every flutter of your eyelashes, every pull of your lips, every sparkle of your eyes. Every inch that is now in this darkness, which will hold the secrets we only told each other but would think of in each moment we spent apart. It feels like a tidal wave, twisting us together in soft whispers and kaleidoscope blankets.

Each ripple of water is stronger than the last; drawing enough air from your lungs to cause a sharp inhale as a chill rattles your bones. It has nothing to do with the cold (you're always warm). It seems odd, but I can_ feel_ it: the adrenaline coursing through your veins as I slip away from your lips momentarily, just to be sure that your skin is touched with heat from my every exhale. We have fallen beneath the surface of the water, into love, into this ocean that only we could ever see or feel or have a taste of. Nobody else. It s ours alone.

This is magic, the kind that flares from every twist of my tongue or slip of my fingertips. I feel like a child again, clumsy and tentative, but at the same time so very adult and headstrong. Somehow, I know exactly what to do. In one single moment, chemicals collide beneath the crashing waves and every fibre of your being comes alive and every muscle in your body locks.. and even the best of deceptions cannot mask this feeling of such intensity and such intimacy and such beauty and such perfection.. and with the relaxation of your shivering bones, I pull you to the surface and hold your face in my hands, catch your breaths in return through tender kisses.

_Soundless words which we know hold true;_  
_beginning with an 'I' and ending in a 'you'._

* * *

** f****luff fluff fluff.  
not very TurkeyGreece like,  
but i dedicate this to my real life Turkey.  
we have been in four months of love  
as from tomorrow.  
x **


	5. Twisting

I'm not doing very well. I'm not good at this.

I'm making myself get over you.  
I'm supplying my body with only fruit and meat.  
I'm smoking opium to remind me of you.  
I'm under the covers and I don't want to move  
(it's a little warmer under the covers and I wish you were here.)  
I'm remembering the feel of your fall-of-night hair.  
I'm walking with an even emptier expression than usual.  
I'm thinking that you liked to chase of me.  
I'm realising that I wasn't who you hoped I'd be.  
(I'm not a pet, something to be used as and when; despite submission under your fluttering fingertips.)  
I'm making myself need you not.  
I'm going to be independent.  
I'm going to be myself and no-one but myself  
(but that's hard to do when 'who I am' was not enough for you.)  
I'm isolating myself.  
I'm staring at this world with ever tired eyes.  
I'm amazed at how much you affected me.  
I'm looking at the purple-grey hue under my eyes, sinking deeper every day.  
(I can see my tiny veins under my skin, twisting little snakes, surviving.)  
I'm wanting you.  
I'm not wanting to let go. I'm re-reading your letters  
(in case I missed something about how to make this simple.)  
I'm trying and trying to cry but my body simply will not.  
I'm living, at least for a while, on memories of you.

I'm not going to be able to stop trying to figure out your expectations.  
I'm not sure if your friends liked me.  
I'm not thinking about you.  
I'm not thinking about you.  
I'm not thinking about you.  
I'm not doing very well.  
Instead, I'm doing the drugs that make me numb again  
(I don't want anyone to make me feel that way; I want control.)  
I'm numb but my sinuses are raw.  
I'm cold.  
I'm not thinking of you.  
I'm going out for another smoke and the clouds just pour and pour.  
I'm a waste of your time.  
I'm a waste of space in your mind.  
I'm a waste of space in your heart.  
I'm wondering if I ever even made it to your heart.  
I'm thinking whether you liked how I felt in your arms  
(or whether you dropped me because I was too heavy.)  
I'm thinking about how you said you'd tell me your story.  
I'm wondering if I'll ever hear it.  
I'm realizing that whoever you do tell your story to now, it will not include me.  
I'm regretting my decision.

I'm thinking about you.  
I'm not doing very well.


End file.
